


there will be more

by myrmidryad



Series: Underground Dreaming [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Magic, Urban Fantasy, budding friendships and activism are the best things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:38:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And what exactly do these friends of yours plan to do about…whatever it is you guys are talking about.”</p><p>“The blatant elitism in magical education,” Bahorel said promptly. “And…well, I’m not sure yet. But something. This isn’t just chat,” he insisted. “Something’s going to come out of this, and I think you should be there for it."</p><p> </p><p>Bahorel persuades Feuilly to meet a few friends of his who have some interesting ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there will be more

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Stood Up](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9x2Tv-8FFI) by A Fine Frenzy.

“Feui _lly!_ ” 

Bahorel laughed when Feuilly looked up from the sink with a long-suffering expression. “How did you get back here?” he asked plaintively. “Can’t I have five minutes’ peace?” 

“I’m a natural charmer,” Bahorel grinned, sliding over to lean against the wall. “What’re you doing tonight?” 

Feuilly scrubbed at the pot in his hand with a frown. “Reading and sleeping. Why?” 

“Come out tonight.” Bahorel stretched. “I’ll buy all your drinks.” 

“No,” Feuilly said flatly. “Not tonight, I’m not in the mood.” 

“I’m not partying tonight,” Bahorel shifted from foot to foot impatiently. “Just going over to a friend’s place to hang out. You should come.” 

“Why’s that?” Feuilly put the pot on the drying rack and started on a glass dish. 

“Because I think you’ll like them. Seriously,” Bahorel added at Feuilly’s sceptical expression. “Come out tonight. I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Never go into politics,” Feuilly snorted. “You’re shit at sweet-talking.” 

“Actions speak louder than words anyway.” Bahorel rolled his shoulders and sighed. “Seriously, you should come.” 

“I’ve got a five am shift at the supermarket tomorrow. Not happening.” 

“I’m not saying stay out all night!” Bahorel protested. “Just come and meet them. I think you’ll like them.” 

“And if I don’t meet them tonight they’ll vanish into the ether?” Feuilly shook his head with a wry smile. 

“Tonight’s gonna be good,” Bahorel insisted. “ _Trust_ me, Feuilly.” 

“I trust you as far as I can throw you.” 

They’d actually tested that once, just to see how far they _could_ throw each other. Bahorel had managed to throw Feuilly about two feet. Feuilly had thrown him about three. He was wiry, Feuilly, and stronger than he looked. People thought Bahorel was some sort of muscle machine just because he liked to talk shit and throw his weight around, and he was always up for a fight, but he wasn’t really stronger than anyone else – he was just more willing to _use_ his strength. 

“That’s three feet of trust there,” Bahorel reminded him. “I’ll buy your drinks, Feuilly. You don’t have to stay out all night – just meet them.” 

“Who even are these friends of yours? Students?” 

“Yeah, all of them.” Bahorel grinned and tapped his fingers against the wall behind him. Once Feuilly was curious enough to ask questions, the battle was pretty much won. “It’s not a party or anything – there’s only five of them so far.” 

“So far?” Feuilly raised an eyebrow, lifting his eyes from the sink for a quick second. 

Bahorel nodded. “You know how street magic doesn’t count as ‘real’ magic with the people in charge?” 

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “Do I ever.” 

“And all that elitist crap about the only _proper_ magic being the stuff we’re taught in school – Western traditional magic, Christian-based God magic –” 

“You know I do,” Feuilly interrupted. Bahorel headbutted his shoulder. 

“Enjolras, one of my friends, he’s been talking for a while about starting some sort of group to…well, challenge that shit, essentially, but I think they need someone with first-hand experience of that sort of discrimination.” 

“You want me to represent the poor starving underclass?” Feuilly gave him a sceptical look and Bahorel grinned unapologetically. 

“We’re all rich students with good intentions and vague ideas. Educate us.” 

“You’re such a shit.” 

“You love it.” 

Feuilly flicked water at him and Bahorel laughed, swatting the back of his head. Feuilly sighed. “As exciting as it sounds, telling a room full of ‘rich students’ about my problems doesn’t exactly appeal to me.” 

“Trust me.” Bahorel leaned against the wall again, facing Feuilly. “This is going to happen anyway, and I reckon you’ll like them.” 

“Sell it to me,” Feuilly challenged him, and Bahorel cracked his knuckles. 

“Okay, okay. So…yeah, okay, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are the ringleaders, Joly met Combeferre in their classes, and Cosette met Courfeyrac or something at a party, I think. Basically, we want to overthrow the government!” He clapped his hands together and waited expectantly for Feuilly’s unimpressed look, which he promptly delivered. 

“That was awful. You suck. Go home and stop trying to use words to communicate.” 

“Come out tonight,” Bahorel pressed. “You won’t regret it. Look, I know I make it sound stupid, but they’re actually great. And they won’t back down if push comes to shove.” 

“What does that mean?” Feuilly frowned at him and started washing the knives. 

“It means they’re not the sort of people to make a lot of noise and then not follow through.” Bahorel was particularly pleased about that – he regarded those who got going when the going got tough with a special brand of disdain. 

Feuilly considered that in silence for a moment, brow furrowed. “And if they’re threatened?” he asked after a while. “If they might lose their places at university? Their homes? Their prospects?” 

“The only ones who really care about their prospects are Combeferre and Joly,” Bahorel told him, “and that’s mostly because you’re not allowed to be a doctor if you’ve got a criminal record, apparently.” Which made sense, he could grudgingly admit, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. “The others are using their degrees for the cause, really. Enjolras is studying combat magic and crowd control, Courfeyrac does Anthropology, and Cosette does Psychology.” 

“And your History of Law degree is going to help this cause how, exactly?” Feuilly asked dryly. 

Bahorel nudged him. “Shut up, it was either that or actual Law, and I _refuse_. Besides, we all know my value is in my fists, not between my ears.” 

Feuilly snorted and drained the sink, flicking water at Bahorel again before he started to dry up. “And what exactly do these friends of yours plan to do about…whatever it is you guys are talking about.” 

“The blatant elitism in magical education,” Bahorel said promptly. “And…well, I’m not sure yet. But something. This isn’t just chat,” he insisted. “Something’s going to come out of this, and I think you should be there for it. You’re always saying…look, hey, if there was an option for a scholarship based on magical aptitude that didn’t exclude street magic, would you apply for it?” 

“Hell yes,” Feuilly snorted. “And I’d get it too.” 

“Yeah you would,” Bahorel said proudly. “So why shouldn’t something like that exist? Fuck the system, man! Make it happen!” 

“Yeah, I’ll try and fit fucking the system in between my shift at the supermarket tomorrow and my shift at the meat factory in the afternoon, shall I? Who do you think packs those bags to be delivered to people’s doorsteps, Bahorel? It isn’t little elves – it’s bored teenagers, tired twenty-somethings, and broke old people.” 

“I’m not saying you should pledge your soul to this or anything.” Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Calm down. Just come out tonight. I’ll buy your drinks, you’ll meet some of my friends, we’ll have a good time. I’m not asking you to join a cult, for Christ’s sakes.” 

Feuilly sighed and finished putting the dried pots and dishes away. “Did you tell them you’d bring me?” he asked. 

“Nope. I don’t make promises I can’t keep, you know that.” Feuilly hung the dishtowel on a hook and turned to face him with a dubious expression. Bahorel gave him his most earnest look and spread his hands entreatingly. “Come out tonight. It’ll be fun.” 

“Will they get pissy at me if I say stuff they don’t want to hear?” 

Bahorel grinned. “No way.” 

“Will they shout a lot?” 

Bahorel considered it. “Courfeyrac might,” he allowed, “but not in a nasty way. He’s just enthusiastic.” 

“What, the guy who’s studying _combat magic_ won’t get involved?” Feuilly asked sarcastically. 

“Oh, Enjolras listens before he opens his mouth,” Bahorel assured him. “He’s very keen on the whole ‘knowing your shit before you speak’ thing.” 

“Unlike someone I could mention,” Feuilly smirked. Bahorel smacked his shoulder and grinned. 

“Shut up. Nah, they’re great, seriously. Come and meet them. You’ll like them.” 

Feuilly sighed and took off his apron. “Where is this happening?” 

“Their apartment. They’ve got a nice place near Notre Dame.” 

“Jesus, how rich are they?” 

Bahorel shrugged. “Same as me – my parents are rich, but I’m technically poor.” 

“Get a job then, you lazy bastard.” Feuilly laughed at him. “God knows you skip enough of your classes anyway.” 

“Charming. It’s like you _want_ me to drop out.” 

“Tsh, I just want you to stop wasting your opportunities.” Feuilly punched his arm and led the way out of the kitchen, lifting a hand to Armand on the way out. “See you next weekend.” 

“See you, Feuilly.” 

“ _Opportunities_ ,” Bahorel repeated with a loud bark of laughter as they stepped outside. “You say that like a History of Law degree will actually open any doors for me.” 

“Any degree opens doors,” Feuilly pointed out. Bahorel slung an arm around his shoulders and started walking him in the direction of the nearest métro station. 

“Doors into unemployment, disillusionment, and bitterness,” he said brightly. “Come on, let’s go overthrow the government.” 

 

Bahorel sat back and purred as Cosette played absently with his hair from her seat on the back of the sofa, watching Feuilly with a triumphant smirk. He’d _known_ bringing him along would be a good idea, and lo and behold, the holy trinity were captivated. Especially Enjolras, hilariously, who looked like he was about to declare Feuilly his new patron deity. 

“At this point it’s just finding like-minded people then?” Feuilly asked, fumbling in his pocket and pulling out his pouch of tobacco. “You guys mind if I…?” 

“Go ahead.” Courfeyrac waved a hand and leaned forward as Feuilly smiled and began to roll himself a cigarette on the table-top. “Yeah, finding more people is the starting point.” 

“But actions speak louder than words,” Bahorel called lazily. Cosette dragged her nails against his scalp and he closed his eyes with a happy hum. 

“We’re probably going to start out with raising awareness,” she told Feuilly. “And testing the waters. We’ve got a good feel for the online atmosphere, I think, but that’s not always a good indicator.” 

Bahorel cracked his eyes open to see Feuilly give Cosette a thoughtful look. “What’s the online atmosphere then?” 

“Divided,” Cosette frowned. “There are pockets of sympathy and indignation, and of course there are the websites and forums where people actively craft and practise virtual magic, but there’s a lot of shit too. You know what the internet’s like – everything’s exaggerated.” 

“Not everything.” Joly shook his head. “But it’s the easiest place to start.” 

“You have a plan of action then?” Feuilly asked. 

Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged a look. “Not yet,” Combeferre said slowly. “Nothing clear-cut, anyway. Like Cosette said, at this point it’s just getting a feel for the way people would react if we did start something. And whether, based on that, we should show our full hand, as it were.” 

Feuilly raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Bahorel, who translated. “He means we don’t know whether we should start throwing bricks just yet, or just write a few thought-provoking articles.” 

“I wonder which camp you fall into,” Feuilly grinned, and Bahorel flipped him off. 

“A rock through a window is always going to make more noise than a petition.” 

“But a petition might make people more inclined to listen,” Combeferre said dryly. 

“We’re still walking the line between peaceful spreading of awareness and full-on activism,” Enjolras clarified. “Nothing’s set in stone yet – we’re still finding our feet. We have all the good intentions, but that’s not enough to actually be useful if we don’t know what we’re doing. Running around like idiots at this point would do more harm than good.” 

Feuilly nodded, putting his roll-up behind his ear and leaning his head on his fist. “You don’t want to look like ignorant tossers,” he concluded. 

“Who does?” Courfeyrac shrugged. “Point is, if we’re doing this, we should do it right.” 

“You said you know a lot of street magic?” Cosette said curiously, and Feuilly smiled. 

“I know a bit.” 

Bahorel snorted. “Bullshit. He knows more than anyone I’ve ever met.” 

Enjolras’ eyes lit up. “Where did you learn it? If you don’t mind me asking, I mean. There’s so little information on the way street magic is passed on and crafted –” 

“And the origins,” Courfeyrac chipped in. “Do you craft?” he asked Feuilly, who held up his hands and laughed. 

“Slow down! Yeah, I craft a bit, but not so much these days. At school though, I did all the time. We all did. Kid stuff, y’know – making bugs run races, trying to trick each other with shitty illusions, cheating spells, that sort of stuff. And there were loads of playground spells. You must know what I mean – see-me-not chants, the fizzy ball game?” 

“The what ball game?” Cosette asked delightedly. 

Feuilly raised his eyebrows. “You’ve never played the fizzy ball game?” 

“I have.” Bahorel raised his hand, and Courfeyrac nodded as well. 

“I’ve never heard of it,” Joly made it sound like an apology, and Bahorel laughed. 

“Maybe you called it something different?” Courfeyrac suggested. “This kid who joined in the middle of primary school called it static shock.” Joly sighed in comprehension and nodded. 

“Is this the thing where you pass the charged nexus in a circle?” Combeferre asked, looking between them. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Feuilly nodded and dragged his palm along the top of the table and rubbed his hands together before holding his hand out to Courfeyrac, who rubbed his hands together and then held his palm over Feuilly’s for a second before pulling it away, dragging the invisible ball of energy with him. 

Bahorel groaned. “Are we seriously doing this? I always end up getting shocked.” 

“What are you doing?” Cosette laughed, staring as Courfeyrac passed the ball to Enjolras, who passed it gingerly to Combeferre. 

“You’ve seriously never played this game before?” Bahorel craned his head to look up at her. She shook her head and shrugged. 

“What is it?” 

“The first person generates some static electricity by rubbing their hand on a convenient surface, usually their clothes,” Joly explained, hands cupped carefully around the invisible nexus. “And it gets passed around until – ow! Fuck, take it, just –” He held his hand out to Bahorel, who took the prickling ball with a laugh. 

“Till everyone’s been shocked,” he finished for Cosette, who looked fascinated. “Last person standing wins.” 

“Hardcore players play until all players but one give up,” Feuilly added, pulling his chair around to make a proper circle and taking the nexus from Bahorel’s hand. “Like a game of peanuts.” 

“What’s peanuts?” Cosette asked. 

“You hurt each other till someone yells ‘peanuts’,” Bahorel explained. “I always won that.” 

She snorted and pushed his head gently. “Hurt each other how?” 

“Bending each other’s fingers back, pinching them, pulling their hair – that sort of crap,” Bahorel shrugged. “Anyway, one game at a time – with fizzy ball, you’re meant to kind of add static to it as it goes round? So it doesn’t get smaller when someone gets shocked?” 

“And the longer it goes round, the bigger it gets,” Cosette nodded. “Can I play?” 

Joly scooted back when Combeferre offered him the invisible ball of static energy. “I’m out, remember?” 

“Oh yeah. Here.” Combeferre got up carefully and offered his cupped palm to Cosette. “It feels like pins and needles. Just pull it from my hand and pass it on to Bahorel.” 

Cosette reached out and pulled her hand back quick with a yelp. “Ow!” 

“This is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” Feuilly grinned. 

Cosette stuck her tongue out at him and held her hand over Combeferre’s with a determined frown. “How do I – ow!” Her hand jolted, but she kept it in place. 

“Shield your palm,” Enjolras advised. 

“Try and keep it curved,” Bahorel added. 

“I’ve got it.” Cosette lifted her hand away from Combeferre’s slowly and held her other hand over it. 

“Don’t spread your fingers,” Joly warned, and she nodded. 

“So I just pass it onto the next person now?” 

“That’s me.” Bahorel cupped his (much larger) hand over her upturned palm and pulled the ball of energy away from her. “It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it, but if you stop paying attention you end up getting zapped.” 

“That’s what we called it at school,” Enjolras said. “The zap game.” 

“So does this count as street magic?” Joly asked sceptically. 

“Well it’s not officially taught, is it?” Bahorel shrugged and rubbed his hands on his thighs to build up some static to add when the ball came round to him. “I guess it counts?” 

“How do kids even learn this stuff?” Courfeyrac asked the room in general. “I don’t remember ever learning it, y’know? Just playing it.” 

“I guess it’s like skipping rhymes and stuff like that,” Combeferre said thoughtfully. “Playground games that just get passed down organically. It’s quite neat, when you think about it. Everyone knows the same games and rhymes, even if there’s a little variation, like us calling it the zap game and you calling it fizzy ball or static shock.” 

“So what about you?” Feuilly asked Cosette, taking the static nexus from Bahorel without looking and cursing when it shocked him. “How come you don’t know it?” 

She shrugged. “I guess because I didn’t go to school till I was ten or so. I was probably too old for those things by then.” 

“Were you home-schooled?” Feuilly asked curiously. 

“No, I just didn’t go to school properly until I was adopted.” Cosette’s nonchalance over her horrific childhood was always something of a surprise to Bahorel. “My dad adopted me when I was nine and home-schooled me for a year to catch me up.” 

“Were you in care?” Feuilly brightened. 

“Very briefly.” Cosette paused while she took the nexus from Combeferre and passed it cautiously to Bahorel, who had to stretch forward to give it to Courfeyrac. “Just for a couple of weeks while my dad sorted the adoption paperwork.” 

“Yah!” Courfeyrac practically shoved the ball at Enjolras. “You asshole.” He glared without real heat at Bahorel. “How much static did you add?” 

“Enough to weed out the weaklings,” Bahorel teased, and laughed at Courfeyrac’s disgruntled expression. “Feuilly used to be in care,” he added for Cosette. 

“My whole life,” Feuilly nodded, and looked at Enjolras and Combeferre. “There’s an interesting microcosm of street magic you could look at. I learned more tricks in care and foster homes than at school. But I guess other types of street magic are taught by family members, so it all evens out in the end.” 

“Unless you’re from families who don’t know any street magic,” Cosette pointed out. 

“Or folk magic,” Bahorel agreed. He didn’t know much urban magic, but his parents had passed on their fair share of useful countryside spells. “You’re right though; that is interesting.” 

“And no one ever counts it as ‘real’ magic,” Enjolras nodded, carefully taking the static from Bahorel and passing it to Combeferre. “It’s absurd.” 

“How would you assess it though?” Feuilly asked. “Like, in an aptitude test? Where does a spell for…I don’t know, say…internet safety come in?” 

“Protection spell,” Courfeyrac said promptly. “Easy. Everything can be categorised – it’s the assessment itself that’s the problem, because the teachers don’t know as much as their students.” 

Feuilly laughed. “Most of the teachers at my schools knew the tricks well enough. There’s another area for you to examine – teachers have to get on top of classroom magic fucking fast, or they’ll be out of the game in no time. I remember being in the staffroom in primary school for some reason, and I saw one of the teachers showing a new assistant how to set up a triple eye spell so she could keep an eye on the kids when her back was turned.” 

“How does that work?” Combeferre asked immediately. Above Bahorel, Cosette squeaked as the static shocked her, and Bahorel took it from her with a laugh. Only him, Enjolras, and Combeferre were still in the game now. 

Feuilly shrugged. “I’ve seen it done in lots of different ways. One of my science teachers had a couple of little mirrors hanging from the ceiling and those acted as his extra eyes. One school I went to had these tiny shelves on each wall for the teachers to set up their own mini altars, and they used those as focus points. It’s a pretty versatile spell. But you could get past them if you were good enough – I knew a girl who used this origami trick to fool them. She’d get a piece of paper and make this sort of twist, and when she twisted it, the eyes would sort of lag? I think?” He gestured with his hands. “It fooled them enough for her to be able to pass notes to her friends, anyway.” 

“Have you ever noticed how street magic spells aren’t usually called spells?” Cosette said suddenly, carding her hands through Bahorel’s hair again. “People call them tricks or stunts, but not spells.” 

Feuilly sat back in his chair and looked at her. “I never really thought about that before. I guess I never noticed it.” 

“Me neither,” she said, “not till just now. You called the teachers’ triple eye spell a spell, and the origami spell a trick, like it was inferior.” 

“Because it is,” Feuilly started to smile, a little bitterly. “I mean, it isn’t, obviously, but…” He licked his lips and leaned his elbows on his knees, long fingers twitching. “You see a kid twist a bit of paper, you don’t think it’s a proper spell. You see a teacher set up altars in a classroom; _that’s_ a spell.” 

“It’s ceremony,” Joly nodded. 

“It’s bullshit,” Courfeyrac snorted. “Smoke and mirrors and convenient lies. It’s all stolen anyway.” 

“Appropriated would be more accurate, I think,” Combeferre said. “It’s not like it’s a secret Western high magic is derived from ancient Eastern practices.” 

Feuilly smiled and stood up. “A secret no one acknowledges. I’ve gotta go – I’ve got an early shift tomorrow. But it was great meeting you all.” 

Bahorel got up as well and went over to put his arm round Feuilly’s shoulders. “I’ll walk you out and steal a smoke, if you don’t mind.” 

Feuilly rolled his eyes indulgently. “Why do I put up with you?” 

“Because I’m adorable.” Feuilly pushed him away with a laugh, and Bahorel led him out, leaning close as they reached the door to whisper, “Told you you’d like them.” 

Feuilly snorted. “No one likes a smartass.” 

“Rude.” Bahorel headbutted him playfully. “You liked them though, didn’t you?” 

“I did,” Feuilly admitted, grinning slightly. They went down the stairs quickly and stepped out onto the narrow street. “They’re smart. And I like their ideas.” 

“Okay, now we’ve got past the fact that you like them, you can start including me in those compliments,” Bahorel said pointedly. “I’m in the cool gang too, y’know.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Feuilly laughed, taking his roll-up from behind his ear and holding it between his lips. “Did you want to be subversive and political as well?” 

“Anarchistic too, don’t forget that,” Bahorel grinned, offering Feuilly his lighter. Feuilly snickered and lit up, handing it back with the cigarette. Bahorel took it and inhaled deeply before returning it. “You want to be involved, right?” 

Feuilly nodded slowly. “Yeah, I reckon I would. They’re interesting.” 

“Can I give them your number?” 

“Sure, if you give me theirs.” 

Bahorel put them all into Feuilly’s ancient old phone and grinned. “As long as we get to start some shit, I’ll be happy. I want a riot.” 

“Don’t you always?” 

“Look, all I’m saying is, what’s the point of trying to attack governmental policies if there’re no protests involved?” 

“Have you ever even been in an altercation with the police?” 

Bahorel smirked. “Not yet. But you don’t need to have a spotless record to be a historian.” 

Feuilly laughed and zipped up his jacket. “I’m not bailing you out unless you give me the money beforehand.” 

“I’ll try to remember to do that then,” Bahorel grinned obnoxiously. “I’m going back inside. See you tomorrow?” 

Feuilly screwed up his nose. “Probably not. I’ve got…lemme think…it’s a Monday, so I’ve got the supermarket, then the meat packing plant…then I’ve picked up a late shift at La Cigale.” 

“That bar in Montmartre?” 

“Yeah.” 

“When do you get off?” 

“Two, I think?” Feuilly took a deep drag and sighed. “I hate Mondays.” 

Bahorel shook his head. “You work too hard, man.” If Feuilly’s supermarket shift was at five, he’d probably be up at four. Getting a bus from Montmartre to his apartment at two-ish in the morning meant he probably wouldn’t get to bed till three, if he was lucky. “Tell me you’ve given yourself a lie-in for Tuesday, at least.” 

“Back to the supermarket for me,” Feuilly said chirpily. “Do you think if I took a sleeping bag in tomorrow, they’d let me in early on Tuesday so I could grab a power nap before work?” 

“You make me want to cry,” Bahorel told him seriously. “You couldn’t _pay_ me to get up that early.” 

“Well it’s not like _I’m_ doing it for free,” Feuilly snorted and offered the cigarette to Bahorel. “Keep it – I’m off.” 

“Sleep,” Bahorel ordered, feeling a little guilty about keeping Feuilly out when he had such a full day ahead of him tomorrow. 

“Oh, I will.” Feuilly tipped an imaginary cap to him and walked away briskly. Bahorel finished the cigarette and ground it out on the road with the toe of his shoe before going back inside. Courfeyrac and Joly were debating something or another, and Bahorel swept in with a massive grin. 

“So! What did you think of Feuilly?” 

“He’s incredible,” Enjolras said immediately, and Bahorel laughed. 

“Yeah, I thought I saw you swooning there.” 

Enjolras glared at him. “Shut up. I just meant he’s inspiring.” 

“Do continue,” Bahorel smirked, pulling the chair Feuilly had been sitting on round to sit with the back between his legs. “Valentine’s Day is only…four months away?” 

Enjolras’ gave him a look that would have rivalled Medusa’s, but Bahorel was immune, protected by smugness. He loved it when his plans worked. 

“He was right though,” Joly said, exchanging a look with Cosette. “We need to start thinking about this a little more. Taking it beyond random ideas over a few drinks.” 

“We should start with narrowing down on something,” Courfeyrac said. “A specific problem which can be solved.” 

“We should look at the politicians,” Cosette said, so firmly that they all turned to look at her. 

“Have you looked at any?” Combeferre asked. 

“I have, actually. The best I’ve found so far is a woman called Lamarque. She’s got some shitty associations with some policies, but her stance on street magic is impressive compared to a lot of the others.” 

“I’ve heard of her.” Enjolras sat up a little straighter. “She called out the blatant racism in the clamp-down on unregistered mages in the suburbs.” 

Bahorel rapped out a pattern on the back of the chair with his knuckles. “We should talk to the street mages themselves. I know a couple of people. Unregistered performers, dodgy dealers, that sort of shit.” 

“When you say dodgy…” Courfeyrac trailed off pointedly. Bahorel shrugged. 

“I mean unaccepted magic. Ghosts and bones and blood – that sort of thing. And I know a thingy sur point whose cousin is a legit bokor.” 

“Houngan or mambo sur point,” Combeferre said. “If you’re talking about a vodou practitioner?” 

“Houngan.” Bahorel clicked his fingers. “That’s it. Yeah, and his cousin’s a bokor – a vodou sorcerer.” 

“That’s seriously illegal magic.” Joly sounded impressed, and Bahorel grinned. 

“Well it’s not like he advertises it.” 

“We should start with the less religiously-associated practitioners,” Enjolras said. “We’re less likely to accidentally offend them. What about that friend of yours you got me to meet?” he asked Bahorel. “Jehan? He was working with spirits.” 

“Holy shit, I forgot you’d already met him!” Bahorel slapped the back of the chair. “And Grantaire too, right?” Enjolras nodded, and Bahorel grinned. “Awesome. Congratulations – you’ve already made contact with a spirit worker and an unregistered street mage.” 

“Grantaire’s an unregistered street mage?” Enjolras smiled slightly, brightening, and Bahorel nodded. 

“He’s not really into politics though,” he warned, “so don’t get all heavy-handed or he’ll just laugh at you. Jehan’ll be into it though, for sure.” 

“What sort of performance magic does he do?” Enjolras asked, leaning forward. 

“Illusions. His usual spots are up in Montmartre, but he comes down to the river every now and then.” 

“Invite him and Jehan as well next time,” Enjolras said. “Feuilly was brilliant. You know the best people.” 

Bahorel preened. “I do, don’t I?” 

“Obviously.” Cosette threw a cushion at his head and giggled. “You know us.” 

Bahorel chucked the cushion back. “You’re lucky I like you.” 

They finished up a little while later, and Bahorel walked with Cosette and Joly to the métro, Cosette splitting off first, followed by Joly until Bahorel was on his own, lounging in the near-empty carriage taking him to his apartment in Croulebarbe. He’d known tonight would be a good one, and remembering that Enjolras had already met Jehan and Grantaire gave him a pleasant feeling of something important coming into shape.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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